


Aerial

by meetmeatthecoda



Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: Adult Themes, Drama, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Lizzington - Freeform, based on the season finale and the promo, kind of, season 7 premiere speculation, strong t rating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 09:28:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20889866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meetmeatthecoda/pseuds/meetmeatthecoda
Summary: "When he comes to, he feels oddly stretched out, drawn and pulled in uncomfortable ways. There’s a telling prick in his neck, surely where the drugs are entering his system, the ones making him fuzzy, slow, and heavy with the knowledge thathe’s in danger."A season 7 premiere speculation fic. Based on the season finale and the promo. Liz goes to Paris to rescue Red. Lizzington. Strong T rating for adult themes.





	Aerial

When he comes to, he feels oddly stretched out, drawn and pulled in uncomfortable ways. There’s a telling prick in his neck, surely where the drugs are entering his system, the ones making him fuzzy, slow, and heavy with the knowledge that _he’s in danger_.

Katarina.

He still has no idea how she’s alive. He didn’t lie to Lizzie when he said her mother was dead.

(Because there’s only one promise he’s managed to keep in his life and it certainly wasn’t to Katarina.)

He has never lied to Lizzie.

Red’s truly believed Katarina to be gone, all these long years. And now, hanging here, helpless and alone, he has nothing else to do but think back.

After they hatched their original plan, it wasn’t long before he was well on his way to becoming Reddington, truly drunk on the money and the power and the blind, _foolish_ devotion he harbored for Katarina. And she wasted no time in securing all the important promises from him, most insistent about very one he broke, the promise that he would protect Lizzie.

(And he prefers not to recall the exact wording he used when he was young and stupid and _simply unaware_ of what the future would hold.)

And it wasn’t long after that that Katarina just…disappeared.

He supposes at the time he missed the signs, the subtle clues she was leaving, somehow not expecting her suicide, her desperate attempt to escape the circumstances. And for a time, the loss of her broke him and his fragile, young heart. But the more time passed, the more he accepted the fact that Katarina had been unhappy. Although he still never approved of the act itself, especially not when he was trying so hard, doing everything he could to save them both.

Well. All three of them.

(And, in his heart of hearts, he never quite understood why she would willingly abandon her daughter, her _child_, the one thing a parent should always protect, especially when the loss of Red’s own child was still so fresh.)

But as the years passed, he moved on from Katarina in every sense. He accepted her willful passing and his new identity and his duty to watch over her daughter. He fully accepted the fact that she was dead by her own hand and therefore wanted nothing to do with her daughter’s life.

And he never truly forgave her for that.

But now, as the shadowy figure of Katarina steps out of the darkness of the warehouse, looking older and fiercer and even more deadly than she did thirty years ago, Red sees that he was wrong about one very important thing.

“Hello, Ilya.”

Katarina is very much alive.

* * *

She takes her time with him.

She makes a show of drawing blood, selecting sedatives, poisons, nerve compounds, instruments of torture that will make Red’s time in this warehouse an absolute hell, all with an emotionless calm that unnerves him.

Though he has no intention of letting her know that.

He waits patiently for her to finish planning his torture, only speaking once the doctors and phlebotomists under her command have left, not wanting an audience to their conversation. Once they’re gone, he speaks calmly, or as calmly as he can while suspended and spread-eagled as he is.

“So,” he starts, serious but also genuinely intrigued. “What do you want, Katarina?”

(Because the moment he discovered she was alive and in hiding, he went to warn her that she was in danger - because if _he_ can find her, surely others can - and her response was to kiss, abduct, and torture him? Well, that tells Red that something is very wrong indeed.)

But she just smiles at him for a long, unsettling moment, leaving him wondering if she will ever address the thirty long years separating them and the fact that she faked her death and expected him to clean up the mess she left behind.

(And it looks as though her and her daughter have one thing in common after all.)

When she finally speaks, it’s with only the smallest hint of the Russian accent they both used to have.

“I’ve been watching you, Ilya.”

And Katarina’s particular brand of deadly, honed with age and experience, still manages to send a shiver down his spine.

(And oh, his misguided love for her died many, many years ago.)

Katarina moves forward now, to the table below him that is half full of syringes and vials and IV bags, to the end covered with overturned pieces of paper, all different sizes. She starts flipping them over, one at a time, methodical. Purposeful.

“I’ve been watching you,” she repeats, angling the papers towards him as she turns them over.

Red squints at them. They’re…photographs.

“Ever since you decided to reenter Masha’s life.”

Surveillance photographs. Of he and Lizzie.

Oh.

Katarina picks up the last photo and walks over to him slowly, a dark glint in her eyes, coming to a halt directly in front of him and raising the photo up to his eyeline.

“And I do not like what I see.”

Red stares at the photo, an intimate moment that he clearly remembers. It was lunch at a D.C. bistro with banter and laughter and happiness.

A good day.

The photo itself, clearly taken through the window of the restaurant, perfectly captures the moment between he and Lizzie, she with her head thrown back in a laugh - because he had _made Lizzie laugh_ and just the memory of it makes his heart warm in his chest - and the look on _his_ face is clearly adoring, captivated. Mesmerized.

(Oh.)

Katarina watches him study the photo, patient as ever, her eyes narrowed as she observes him carefully.

“Now,” she begins, lowering both the photograph and her voice, a warning clear as day. “Don't tell me you’ve gone and fallen in love with my daughter..._Raymond_.”

And the implication is clear, the unneeded reminder of his false identity, the thing that makes the whole situation perverse. It’s the thing that grates on him the most, the thing he loathes the most about himself, both the best and worst part of him. And this trivialization of one of the most basic facts of who he is, uttered by this infuriating woman who _should be dead_, the reality of his distinctly _unpaternal_ love for Lizzie, makes his eyes glare, his jaw tighten, and his fists clench.

It’s all the answer Katarina needs.

Her eyes flash with a danger he hasn’t seen in decades and she strides up to his IV, grabbing an unmarked vial from the table and injecting it into the bag with an expression like fire –

And then all he knows is pain.

* * *

The flight to Paris is long.

Four hours ago, when Liz got the call from Dembe, telling her that Red was missing somewhere is the city of love, the whole world dropped out from underneath her because, really, Red? _Again?_

(But she knows it doesn’t matter because, at this point, there’s simply no limit to the number of times she’ll go after him.)

Liz paces up and down the cabin of the plane, uneasy with the feelings coursing through her, and the odd way they left things two days ago. She could kick herself because she knew, _she knew_, something wasn’t quite right, with his posture, his expression. He had a guilty conscience.

And she let him go.

(What a fool she is.)

When he left her apartment, with only a wistful glance at her daughter, Liz had been sad and hurt. Because she had significantly different plans for the evening. Plans that involved a princess movie with her daughter and Red, _there_, entertaining them both with stories that would trigger Agnes’ memory within moments and have her squealing in delight at the return of “Ed”, the “funny-looking”, _wonderful_ man who _raised_ her for _almost a year_ –

(Liz had tried not to be upset by her daughter’s innocent question. After all, she is so very young.)

And she supposes it’s irrelevant at this point that, after snuggles and bedtime for her daughter, her vague, half-formed plans had also included her and Red on the couch, with low light and red wine, perhaps ending in snuggling of a different kind –

But instead he left to go get captured in Paris and now it’s her job to save him. And if that isn’t just their luck, she doesn’t know what is.

(They seem to have an awfully irritating habit of getting abducted at the most inconvenient of times.)

But the thing that makes this all worse is that, according to Dembe, it’s her _mother_ that’s holding Red captive. Her dead mother. Her dead, Russian KGB agent mother that walked into the ocean instead of sticking around to actually...be her mother. The very same mother that Red told her was dead.

That mother.

But Dembe was insistent when he told her Red was positive Katarina was, in fact, dead, until one of his associates recently came forward with information indicating the opposite, and Red had only looked further into it because he wanted to make sure her and Agnes were safe.

And Liz considers it a tiny bit of personal growth that she stayed calm long enough to hear Dembe’s explanation. And, now that she did, she believes him. Red was, once again, trying to protect her and he sacrificed himself in the process.

(What’s new?)

Then again, her hasty acceptance of the situation may be the result of denial. It just may have not completely hit her yet that her mother is alive. She has a feeling that she’s compartmentalizing those particular emotions until Red is safe. And perhaps its most telling of all that she wants him safe first, before she even thinks about meeting a long thought-dead member of her family, _her mother_, who could give her those sacred “answers” that she’s been looking for.

(But honestly, if someone wants to hurt Red, Liz isn’t sure she cares very much who they are. She’ll rescue him first and ask questions later.)

And what does that say about her?

Liz huffs an exasperated sigh and abruptly stops pacing in the middle of the aisle, pressing her hands over her eyes, trying to fend off a stress headache, frustrated and anxious and just wanting to _get to him_.

Dembe looks up from his table full of plans and blueprints.

“Sit down, Liz,” he murmurs, quiet but with authority. “It’s still an hour and a half until we land.”

Liz stands frozen and staring at him, feeling frazzled and unsure, but the longer she stares into his eyes, the calmer she feels, unable to deny his soothing presence.

“Fine,” she lets out a long breath, slumping into the seat next to him.

“Let’s go over the plan again,” says Dembe, patting her knee placatingly. “That’s the most helpful thing we can do right now.”

Liz takes another breath and scrubs her face with her hands, shoving her confusing thoughts away to focus on the imperative task at hand: saving Red.

(Because right now, nothing else matters.)

Liz leans forward to stare determinedly at their plans, placing her elbows on her knees and lacing her fingers together.

(Red is counting on her.)

“Okay, let’s do it.”

* * *

They decide on a small operation, so as not to draw any undue attention to themselves. It’s just the two of them, her and Dembe, with none of Red’s mercenaries with them as back up. They decide that Dembe will work the perimeter outside the warehouse and Liz will sneak inside.

With a sniper rifle.

It’s loaded with tranquilizer darts, simply because Liz would rather not shoot to kill when Red may end up in the crossfire. And she doesn’t necessarily want to put a bullet in her mother.

Not yet anyway.

Dembe agrees with her reasoning but still insists that she take a bandolier full of bullets slung across her chest.

(And he doesn’t even know about the knife strapped to her calf.)

The warehouse where their sought-after intel says Red is being held is old and dilapidated, probably chosen just for that reason, meant to look boring and unsuspicious. But they know better. The front entrance has guards, two slightly bored-looking men in black with shotguns on their hips, but the back is unprotected.

And there’s a broken window.

It’s almost too easy.

The window is high on the side of the building, likely on the second floor, which suits Liz just fine. She’d rather be high up and invisible to get a look at the situation before she goes in guns blazing.

Dembe gives her a boost up to the window and passes her gun to her once she’s inside. She sticks her head back out the window to look down at him.

“Be careful, Elizabeth. Katarina is not to be underestimated.”

Liz nods. She has no doubt about that.

(But her own safety is irrelevant. Red is the only thing that matters.)

“Don’t worry, I’ll get him out.”

She leaves Dembe outside and pulls her head back inside to turn and look into the dark warehouse. She’s come out onto the second floor, as suspected, and it’s thankfully deserted, but she can’t quite see down into the main room, where she sees lights. Her gaze skitters around, searching the dark corners of the landing for some climbable thing and –

Aha.

Her gaze alights on a thin metal ladder, leading up to the ceiling of the old building that is covered with catwalks, used at one point for changing the large industrial lights above her. The lights that are now off, swathing the high ceiling in complete darkness, creating a place where she can see everything but not be seen.

Perfect.

Liz creeps over to the ladder, swiftly appraising it. It looks sturdy enough to hold her, she just hopes it doesn’t make any noise in the process. So, she swings her rifle around to rest on her back and starts to climb, cautiously pausing on each rung to prevent any metallic squeaking that might alert her mother to an intruder.

(And isn’t that an odd sentence to be thinking.)

As she slowly ascends above the second landing, the main room comes into view. It’s large and nearly empty, mostly dark but for the huge floodlight illuminating the two people in the very center.

Red and her mother.

Liz doesn’t look too closely at them, not yet, instead focusing on making it up to the catwalk in silence. Once she makes it to the top rung, she carefully eases herself up onto the catwalk, lying flat on her stomach and crawling carefully along the length of it until she’s almost directly overtop the flood light.

It’s a good thing she’s not afraid of heights.

Now perfectly in position, high up in the darkness, Liz noiselessly pulls her rifle around from her back to her front, settling in on the catwalk and taking a deep breath before putting the scope up to her face.

And what she sees now that she’s looking, _really looking_, takes her breath away.

She sees Red, tied up, which is enough to take her breath away in itself, but the _way_ in which he’s tied up - both completely unnecessary and _absolutely_ _essential_ \- sends a thrill through her like she’s never felt before.

(And that’s not completely true. She’s felt this before, this intense interest and excitement, power and attraction, _arousal_, but only when Red looks something like this, tied up, restrained, _at her mercy_, and isn’t that interesting –)

And he’s tied to some sort of chain link structure, spread out like an absurdly attractive star fish, dressed in some kind of loose, gray clothing that looks wonderfully _easy to remove_ –

(And she should really spend some time looking into these odd urges of hers because, no, this certainly isn’t the first time she’s felt this way, and, _oh_, she _dearly_ hopes it won’t be the last.)

But lying here up on the catwalk, looking down at Red, intrigued beyond measure, something begins to niggle at her, something out of place, something that isn’t right. Liz adjusts her scope, frowning as she focuses on Red’s face, or what she can see of it, as his head is lolled off to one side, his eyes closed, his mouth slack, his face pale and drawn. Liz frowns, her arousal dissipating quickly, being rapidly replaced by concern.

What’s wrong with him?

Liz spies something off to the side of Red’s restraints, some kind of equipment, and she zooms in her scope to see what it is. It looks mechanical, almost medical, and there’s tubes coming from it, leading upwards, and she follows them with her scope, trying to see where they lead to and –

They’re attached to Red.

_Tubes_ are inserted in the side of Red’s neck and, as she watches, a figure steps forward to adjust the machinery.

_Her mother_.

(And Liz spends a long moment looking at her, this strangely unfamiliar woman, with her pinched, expressionless face and strict, flat hair secured in a utilitarian bun and Liz _doesn’t feel anything_. She waits for the warm rush, that feeling that’s homely and comforting and _pure_, what she always felt when she saw Sam, that feeling of _home_. But here, looking at her mother? She feels _nothing_.

Good. That makes things easier.)

As Katarina begins to push buttons on the IV, the tube suddenly turns bright red, as Red’s blood flows to the IV bag, hanging limply, barely swaying, weighed down by liquid because –

It’s already half full.

Red is bleeding out, slowly but surely.

Katarina is killing him.

Rage erupts within Liz, and her finger twitches on the trigger of her tranquilizer rifle, suddenly fiercely glad that Dembe made her take bullets as well, and she wonders how quickly she can load them without making any noise, because she will _not let that bitch_ –

Katarina moves again to a long table set up next to the equipment, picking up a syringe from what Liz now sees is a wide assortment of solutions, vials, and bottles of god only knows what, and, before Liz can do anything, Katarina steps forward and injects it into Red’s IV.

Within moments, he begins to stir.

Liz watches him struggle to regain consciousness, whatever drugs she’s given him clearly not enough to combat his severe blood loss, and her throat gets a little tight at the sight.

(Poor Red.)

“Raymond.”

As Liz hears Katarina speak for the first time, the single word throws her back to her mysterious childhood, shrouded in espionage and danger, something hazy and frightening.

(Liz thinks she may recognize something of her mother’s voice, some vague idea or feeling, as if from some sort of dream. No. No, not a dream.

A nightmare.)

“Raymond,” Katarina repeats, and Liz watches Red blink sluggishly, trying to focus his eyes on her. “Are you ready to tell me where Masha is?”

Liz’s heart thrills in her chest at her given name, spoken with just a hint of a Russian accent in a way she’s never heard it before.

(And her mother’s voice, something from a life past, speaking her old name, cold and dangerous, sends shivers down her spine.)

So, Katarina wants to get to Liz. Liz suspected as much, but it’s sobering to have the confirmation. Katarina is torturing Red for information about _her_ and yes, this has to stop.

(And if Red’s safety wasn’t enough, Liz’s maternal instincts for Agnes’s safety would be more than enough to make her hunt Katarina down. Because frankly, over the years, Liz has had quite enough of her fake parents trying to claim their share of her daughter.)

Red is still silent, frowning at Katarina as if she’s said something mildly rude to him and the sight makes Liz smile fondly.

“Raymond,” Katarina snaps, impatience now clear in her voice. “Tell me where they are. I won’t ask you again.”

So, she does want Agnes as well. The realization has Liz calmly checking her tranquilizer darts, making sure one is loaded properly before she peers through the scope at Katarina, carefully aiming for her neck.

“No.”

Liz freezes at the sound of Red’s voice, gravely and exhausted but strong as always in conviction and, oh, will he really never stop fighting for her?

“No, I won’t.”

His voice is even stronger now, and his clear, unwavering protectiveness for her and her daughter brings tears to Liz’s eyes.

(And the fact that it sounded like he was answering her unspoken question doesn’t help, the sheer force of emotion she feels for him bubbling up and threatening to drown her.)

Liz blinks rapidly to clear the tears from her eyes before looking down the scope once more.

It’s time.

Liz lines the crosshairs up to her mother’s neck, holds her breath like she was taught, and pulls the trigger.

The effect is almost instantaneous.

Katarina cries out, clapping a hand to her neck, whirling around and searching frantically in the dark for her attacker. She stares fruitlessly around for a moment before she starts to sway on her feet, stumbling unsteadily off to one side, and then finally collapsing to the ground, unconscious.

Liz smiles to herself.

She sees Red frown, confused at the turn of events, before dozing off again, unable to stay conscious with no one demanding information from him.

Well. No longer.

Liz takes her time crawling backwards off the catwalk and climbing down the ladder, knowing that Katarina should be under for at least a few minutes and, well.

Red certainly isn’t going anywhere.

(What good luck.)

It takes almost no time at all before Liz finds the final ladder descending from the second-floor landing, stuffed in the corner of the warehouse in complete darkness. She climbs carefully downwards.

Her feet hit the ground floor and Liz turns around, walking towards Red, who is still firmly chained up and slipping in and out of wakefulness. He seems to hear her footsteps as he looks up to peer into the shadows of the warehouse, frowning, blinking dazedly as Liz finally steps into the light.

(And if she knew how she looked to Red in that moment, stepping out of the darkness of the warehouse and the blurriness at the edges of his vision, a lithe form with dark hair and fierce eyes, looking like hope and danger and everything her mother _never was for him_.)

Liz heads towards Red, unable to take her eyes off him as she advances, looking at the way his hands and feet are stretched and bound.

(Very interesting indeed.)

Liz only breaks her gaze from Red’s as she stops in front of her mother’s unconscious form on the ground. Liz gazes dispassionately down at her, checking to make sure she’s well and truly out. Once she’s satisfied, she looks up to see Red struggling to keep his eyes open to look at her, and mostly failing. Liz smiles faintly.

(What a dear man.)

Liz steps over Katarina to get to him.

(And what a symbolic moment that is, if she stops to think about it.)

Liz steps up to Red, whose eyes have slipped closed and stayed shut, his face looking much too pale. She gazes at him, feeling that familiar well of affection for him, and finally, _finally_ she’s able to crowd in close to him. Liz runs her hands down his middle, having wonderfully inappropriate ideas about this particular position, considering the circumstances.

(She smirks to herself. Another time. Perhaps.)

Liz cups his face and, without a moment’s hesitation or regard for her unconscious mother on the ground behind her, she kisses him lightly on the lips, gentle and reverent, and murmurs his name to rouse him.

“Raymond.”

His eyes flutter open at the sound of her voice.

“Lizzie?”

(And, oh, the helpless way he mumbles her name, all hoarseness and gravel, combined with him restrained here before her, almost has her knees buckling.)

Liz smiles and nods, pressing even closer to him, the length of her torso touching his.

“You came,” he whispers, sounding relieved and just amazed enough that she feels a pang of hurt in her chest.

(Although the assumption stings, she supposes there was a time, not all that long ago, when she may _not_ have come to save him. How she’s changed since then.)

“Of course,” she murmurs, soft and soothing, cupping his cheek and rubbing lightly at the dark circles under his dim green eyes. “You should know by now that I’d burn the world down for you.”

(Because what better way to convince him of the depth of her love than to parrot his own declaration back at him.)

Liz watches as tears fill his eyes. “But, Lizzie, she’s –”

“I know who she is,” Liz interrupts, not wanting to hear the word, one of the two six-letter groupings that have kept them apart over the years. “And I don’t care.”

(Because if the last few years of her life have taught her anything, it’s that shared blood means absolutely nothing. The strongest and most meaningful relationships in her life have been with people had no familial obligation to her, the people who simply chose to be there. The people who love her. Cooper, Ressler, Aram.

Sam.

_Red_.)

And he’s gaping at her, completely stunned once again by her words.

Liz shakes her head. “She’s stayed away from me all these years, even when I needed her the most – letting me think she was _dead_ – and now she thinks the way to reconnect with me is to hurt you? Well,” she says, smoothing a hand down Red’s side with a rueful smile. “She obviously doesn’t know me very well.”

And, half because the temptation is too much and half because the absolutely reverent look on Red’s face is seconds away from undoing her completely, she leans in to press another kiss to his lips.

(Dry and warm and full of love for her, and now that she’s started? She can’t seem to stop.)

And when they part, she moves back only far enough to look into his eyes, first surprised but unmistakably warm and gazing at her, then suddenly going flat and cold with fear as his eyes flick over her shoulder and his lips part slightly.

It’s all the warning Liz needs.

Liz feels the air move behind her, raising the fine hairs on the back on her neck and with it her instincts, and she spins without a second thought, calm, collected, and deadly, to block the knife sailing towards them with one arm and to viscously backhand her mother with the other, sending her crashing to the ground, unconscious once more.

(It’s all much easier than she ever would have thought.)

It takes all of a split second and Liz has acted before she even had a chance to think, defending Red as a reflex, an instinct.

(He’s so ingrained in her.)

Now, as her brain catches up to her body, gazing down at her mother, Liz realizes that she’s put herself directly in front of Red, her back to his broad chest, to best protect him in his vulnerable position.

(Because she will not allow any more harm to come to him. Not from anyone. Even her own mother.)

“Lizzie?”

She turns immediately, just his voice stealing back her attention effortlessly.

“Do you think you could help me down?”

The polite request has Liz smiling and, with the immediate danger gone, she can’t help but tease him a little.

“Well,” she sighs heavily, as though put-upon. “I suppose I _should_, though I can’t say I really want to.”

Red just raises his eyebrows at her in question.

“You look much too appealing, you know,” she murmurs, unable to resist pressing against him once more, this time running her hands along his outstretched arms, squeezing his biceps. “All tied up with _nowhere to go_.”

She whispers the last bit, leaning in to brush her lips against his ear, enjoying his slight intake of breath, feeling his stomach contract against her own.

“Lizzie?” he croaks, this time not so much from his injuries, and she laughs, taking pity on the poor man, blood loss and all.

“What can I say?” she jokes, lighthearted now, as she moves away to tug at the restraints around his wrists. “Apparently I’m a fan of this. It’s news to us both.”

(And she’ll be damned if she knows how to feel about it, so how can she fairly expect Red to –)

“Well, we’ll have to do something about that, then, won’t we?”

(And just the idea that Red would be willing to explore this with her, coupled with the intrigued, dark sparkle in his eyes, has her fingers fumbling to undo his restraints.)

They work together to carefully get him down, Liz releasing one limb at a time as he slowly checks his balance, not wanting to pass out from blood loss. Once he’s free and standing on his own two feet, albeit leaning heavily on her, he speaks again.

“Do you think we might sit for just a moment, Lizzie?”

He lowers himself to the ground rather quickly, not waiting for a response.

“Are you alright?” she asks, following him down, concerned. “I don’t know how much blood you lost, but it looks like a lot.”

Red nods, breathing deeply. “It was a fair amount,” he concedes. “I’m alright, Lizzie, I’m just a tad light-headed. Let me sit for a moment and then we’ll be on our way. I’m assuming Dembe is nearby waiting for us?”

“He is,” Liz confirms. “We’re both very exasperated at how you manage to get yourself into these situations, by the way.” She pokes a little fun, rubbing his knee affectionately, trying to keep the atmosphere light.

(Or, as light as things can be, when they’re sitting in her dead mother’s personal torture chamber with her unconscious form at their feet.

In Paris.

What a funny little world.)

Red chuckles quietly. “Yes, I do seem to have a habit of that, don’t I?”

“You do,” Liz agrees solemnly. “And, in case you’re not aware, there is a rather simple solution.”

Red quirks an eyebrow at her. “And what’s that?”

“Well,” she hesitates, suddenly irrationally nervous. “Maybe the next time I ask you to stay for dinner…you’ll stay.”

She glances shyly up at Red, just in time to see his mouth quirk into a tiny smile and his eyes sparkle with wonder at her, lighting up his pale face.

“Maybe I will.”


End file.
